Fall 2000, Volume 18.1

Fiction

Neila C. Seshachari

It's Your Heart That Makes All the Difference

Neila C. Seshachari (Ph.D., U of Utah) is a Professor of English at
Weber State University, where she teaches twentieth-century American
literature and critical theories, among other courses. Her most recent
publications include an edited collection, Conversations with William
Kennedy (Univ. Press of Mississippi, 1997), and a pioneering chapter
titled "Asian-Indians of Utah: The First Recognition" in Asian
Americans in Utah: A Living History (State of Utah, 1999). She is
currently working on a book-length study on the subject. After many years
as editor of Weber Studies, she is particularly honored and
delighted to make her debut as a "contributor" to the journal.

They have decided to stay home and celebrate the New Millennium in a unique way, as they have never celebrated any New Year's
eve before. It is her idea.

When everyone was planning where to be to usher in the rare occasion,
long before anybody had been pushed into celebrating it at home as a
protest against obscenely high event prices or as a response to terrorist
scares, she had decided that home was the best place to savor the fin
de siècle of this century, ruminate on its wonders, peer into the
crystal ball of their own lives to see what they should expect in the new
one. This rare gift of seeing the end of a millennium deserved close
spiritual introspection and fondly-considered outcomes, she felt.

The idea had sneaked into her imagination secretly, on padded feet.
They were at a party in early March when their hostess had broached the
topic of millennium madness. They should do something really unique and
outlandish, her friends had all agreed. Should they be on an ocean liner
bound for an exotic island? Or should they just fly to Las Vegas and
splurge? How about Alaska in winter? Was that possible? All of them had
given their hosts the responsibility of inquiring about the most
outlandish, most unusual celebration.

On the way home, he said, How come you were so quiet when they were all
planning this big celeb?

In the darkness of the car speeding on the freeway, she looked at him,
searching for his eyes that were fixed on the road ahead. Sweetheart, she
said, would you be terribly disappointed if I suggested we stay home and
celebrate that one unique event in our lives with each other? We could
plan something exciting, intimate, out of this world.

Anything you say, he said. Let's stay home.

She noticed with some concern that he didn't sound very enthusiastic.

How would you plan the evening? he asked.

I shouldn't do it alone, she said. Let's plan it together. Let's put
our hearts into planning a quiet, perfect evening. Will you? she asked.

Sure, let's do it.

Since then she has been thinking off and on about this momentous last
evening that marks the end of the year, the decade, the century, and the
millennium! She isn't sure what to make of it. She knows it's going to be
like any other New Year's eve bursting noisily into the New Year's day.
Even though they've spent their New Year's eves in many ways, she can only
think of Times Square in New York, watching the clamorous count down to
the hour on TV. Everyone at the party scrambling to get a champagne glass
raised in time to toast the New Year. Lights going off and on, blinking
sporadically, giving every couple a chance to hug and kiss before the
pandemonium of twanging glasses, everyone crowding in the room, repeating
New Year's wishes with loud enthusiasm. It had seemed fun all those years.
She wants this year to be very special.

It's early December when she asks him with some concern, Do you really
want us to stay home and make this New Millennium very special?

Yes, he says. You said that a long time ago, didn't you?

She is happy that he remembers. She says, We should write something
original for each other and read it out to each other. How does it sound
to you?

He doesn't reply, doesn't want to commit himself.

Well, perhaps not necessarily write for each other, but just write
something original and read it out to the other.

Maybe, he says.

Two days later, she asks if he plans to write.

I'll see, he answers.

No commitment.

She says, We should meditate too, don't you think? And read out to each
other, something not necessarily written by us, but something each one
wants to read out to the other. Will you read to me?

Umm, he says without enthusiasm, we could read.

The news radio announces the President's famed Renaissance Weekend.
Some 1,200 people have signed up for the event, it says, but the Clintons
won't be attending it this year. Bill Clinton wants to be at the
millennial celebration at the Jefferson Memorial.

Should they plan a private Renaissance Weekend of their own, just the
two of them? she wonders. The idea is heady. It would be so exciting, even
challenging, but it would need careful planning by them both. She is
beginning to realize that she cannot plan anything at all unless he shows
some enthusiasm. Everything depends so much on one's heart, she thinks
with apprehension. She realizes that the very same events on any day could
be bathed in one's moods to make them special or irritating, unique or
just plain dull. She desperately wants to make this beginning of the New
Millennium, this once-in-a-lifetime day, to be special for them both.

She has been grading the semester's research papers and exam papers all
week. This afternoon she is going to turn in her grades, after which she
will have two weeks of winter break.

Green Mile or you'll have to lobby me. Don't know how long
that'll take you.

Perhaps we should just stay home, Sweetheart. You look tired.

That's what I really want, she says, as she collects the grade sheets
and tests in her arms. I have yet to compute and enter one set, she says.
But let's plan tonight what we should do New Year's Eve. I shouldn't be
more than an hour. Until then think of something different to do by
ourselves. We haven't yet talked about anything, and we have only ten more
days. Pouting her mouth apprehensively, almost flirtatiously, she says,
You are so lazy about these things.

He looks at her ominously. Taking two steps toward her, he says in a
menacing tone, Lazy? Do I hear you say that I am lazy?

She notices that his mouth is quivering, his chin thrust out. She is
afraid.

I'm surprised you say that, he says with deliberation. He has been
washing rice at the kitchen sink, getting ready to cook for her.

O, I don't mean you are physically lazy, Sweetheart, she says
hastily. You do a lot of things around the house—you are cooking right
now, for heaven's sake. I mean you are mentally lazy. You don't
want to think about…. She fumbles, knows she has made a faux pas.

You can't speak for an hour without insulting me, he snaps. You always
insult me.

She is too hurt to retort. She closes the door after her and leaves. No
goodbye pecks, no Drive safely admonition.

Entering grades and computing them keeps her mind off her wounded
heart. But she is despondent again when she gets back to her office after
delivering them.

The phone rings. Haven't you given your grades yet? he asks.

Yes, I just came back to my office. The grades are in.

Then when? he asks.

I have a few things to take care of, she says.

Are you on your email?

Yes.

Bye, Sweetheart, he says.

She starts her computer and opens her email. There are several
messages, three from the same student. Melissa has already left her one
telephone message and twice hung up without leaving messages, she
suspects. I have paid my fees and left the receipt in your mail box, her
message had said. I need you to give me a grade, ple..ee..ease.

She is relieved that she can now send her distraught student an instant
reply:

Dear Melissa, I am writing now so you won't spoil your vacation
worrying about your grades. Your grade has been turned in. You've done
well and earned a B+ on the course. Congratulations. Smart of you to leave
the fee receipt in my box.

Then she adds,

Wish you a merry Christmas and a wonderful New Millennium. May you
dream dreams that are within your reach, and may you work with all your
heart to make them come true. No matter how simple or complex your wishes,
it's your heart that makes all the difference.

It's past 5:00 p.m. and getting dark. She sighs. She has no heart to go
home. The phone rings again.

Tom Brokaw is on, he says. When are you coming?

She does not respond.

The market's gone up, he says, by 124. I thought you'd be interested.
The NASDAQ too by 57 points. Do you think I should have transferred more
into my tech stocks?

That's good news, she says with no enthusiasm.

How long will you take? he asks. Another fifteen minutes?

O, about half hour at the most.

She answers more email. It's very dark now and from her window on the
third floor, she sees that the dimly-lit parking lot is empty, except for
three beat-up cars. She is afraid to stay any longer, and she leaves in
haste. A mop and bucket on the stairs assure her some student-janitors are
somewhere in the empty building. Still hurting, she fights back tears. She
hates cry-baby eyes and thinks of casual reasons to tell him, should he
ask when she gets home. He has never asked, but she suspects one can never
be sure. People can change, especially at special times like these—the
turn of the millennium. What if he does notice and does ask? She tunes in
the golden oldies station on the dial. If he asks, she'll tell him she was
listening to Linda Ronstad's tear-jerker, "What'll I do?"

This evening, he does not open the back door as he normally does when
he hears the garage door opening.

See, Dan Rather is just coming on, he says, as she enters. It is six
o'clock; he has barely finished changing TV channels.

She smiles wanly. She has resolved that she must not talk to him at all
because she does not want to "insult" him. Ten more days to the
New Millennium. Ten days' lead into a new resolution—ten days of dull,
speechless respect for him, if he is dumb enough to believe she insults
him every hour, on the hour.

Expertly blended spice flavors surround her the moment she enters the
kitchen. For one flickering second she forgets her resolve and wants to
coo around him, hug him from the back and plant a kiss on the nape of his
neck. Remembering just in time, she ignores the flavors and makes a
beeline for the evening newspaper on the granite kitchen-counter. She is
figuring out the pattern of the silver flecks in the shiny black and grey
and mother-of-pearl pink-tinted granite but pretends to read the newspaper
with great concentration. She is trying to imitate him doing exactly that
after he picks up the newspaper from their mail box when he returns home.
Dan Rather is giving the market recap for the day and forecasting what
this continuing bull market will do for Americans in the first five
decades of the New Millennium. She does not look at the TV, knowing he is
looking at her, but she is listening intently as she normally does when
she is cooking.

He has set the table, laid out three warm dishes on the other side of
the long island-counter with two Christmas china plates next to them and
is waiting for her to serve him. No matter who cooks, he waits for her to
serve him and always waits for her before he starts to eat.

I'll wash up during the commercials, she says. She takes great pleasure
in making him wait today. You should know how it feels to wait every day,
she says to him wordlessly. But his patience is monumental, she knows. He
can wait without fidgeting, without even knowing he is waiting.

Let me serve you, he says as she picks up a plate, but she ignores him.
She serves herself and waits for him at the table. She notes it is easy to
wait today.

This is very good, she says in a flat tone as they begin to eat.
Everything's good.

He asks, Don't you feel good now that you don't have the weight of all
that grading?

Yes, she says.

Isn't that good news about the market?

Umm hum!

They eat in total silence. She swallows her vitamin pills that he has
set on the table. She picks up both the plates and goes to the sink and

starts loading the dishes as he cleans the table and brings the
remaining dishes to her. Then she goes back to the newspaper and starts
reading in silence.

Shall we play? he asks.

Normally she is the one who asks him. She imitates his usual response
to her, waits a deliberate second feigning disinterest, before she looks
at the radio clock and says, Okay, half hour.

Don't talk, don't insult him, she keeps reminding herself as they play
rummy in silence.

When the half hour is up, she climbs the stairs to her perch, flips her
computer into purring life, and starts writing this evening's events. She
is still hurting; her eyes are still stinging. She has made up her mind to
spend New Year's Eve all by herself, reading to herself, writing for
herself.

If he puts his heart into their New Millennium plans and they spend an
enchanting evening cooking a lovely meal together listening to Wynton
Marsalis's In This Home This Morning or Ravi Shankar's Chants of
India, toast a glass of red wine to the birth of a new era, talk
reverently about how good life has been in spite of all the wrenches…if
they read aloud to each other something written for the other, she will
read this to him.